


Everybody's Looking for Something

by Monopteros



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward longing, Brief Reference to Nonconsensual Mnemosurgery, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Somnophilia, Could Use Happier Fics Though, Crossfaction, Don't Worry; It Doesn't Happen, Enemies to Somethings, Hidden Furmanism, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Mutual Agreement Safety-Wrapped In Unpleasant Pretense, Prompt Fill, Rarepair, They're Like Hidden Mickeys But More Groan-Inducing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vague Continuity, consensual hypnosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23773828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monopteros/pseuds/Monopteros
Summary: The idea that they might be compatible, professionally or otherwise, had never before crossed his mind. How could it, considering the events framing their early encounters? But long, bitter wars have a strange way of modifying viewpoints. Soundwave may be getting in over his head.And if he's given permission, into Prowl's. He's got a neat little power, you see. It can give a mech everything they've ever dreamed of having.Almost.
Relationships: Prowl/Soundwave, Slight Notes About Others
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62





	Everybody's Looking for Something

**Author's Note:**

> Started this around two and a half years ago in response to a NSFW prompt spotted on Tumblr and finished writing it thanks to the push from Prowl Week. It's more Soundwave centered, but I'm considering this my free choice submission anyway. The fic's setting is a vague blob made up of 75% IDW-ish content and 25% sprinkles of other stuff. Canon timelines have been pushed out of a third story window and left broken and bleeding in an unmonitored alley.
> 
> I got about a hundred words into writing extended hypnotic patter before remembering I'd have to rework everything into Soundwave's voice, so the structure of his suggestion has been left to your imagination.

Soundwave crept through the hallway, checking his HUD's chronometer against the promised break in Red Alert's surveillance shift. Not for the first time, he wondered how swiftly the Decepticons could take control of the war if he abandoned his promises and used one of these planned lapses to slaughter multiple command mechs instead of restricting himself to the latest in a long series of harmless infiltrations. If nothing else, Soundwave could murder the one mech more capable of causing trouble than Jazz—or, if he felt generous that day, crack open and reshape their mind, sculpting them into a Decepticon whose usefulness would come close to outstripping his own. Either way, the Autobots would be down one of their most precious and irreplaceable resources.

It was precisely that irreplaceable status which always helped stay Soundwave's hand. No one Decepticon could ever hope to match up to everything he knew this Autobot to be.

Megatron possessed power, strength, and an unparalleled ability to intimidate, but no restraint, and Soundwave had long ago learned never to try drawing Megatron's attention away from Optimus. He hadn't managed to figure out whether his leader wanted Prime to beg for _mercy_ or to beg for _more_ (and to be traitorously honest, suspected Megatron himself didn't know), but that changed little. He knew his own place, and it was not at his leader's side. Not in that sense.

Not that he'd ever had a problem with that; it meant a lack of vicious rumors about how, exactly, he'd reached a position of such high esteem in Megatron's optics. Given the nature of Soundwave's fellow officers, the value of such a blessing couldn't be overlooked.

Shockwave? Shockwave was brilliant; there was no denying it. He could also be so ruthless and logical that the thought of it stole the very air from Soundwave's ventilation systems and held it for a ransom not even a Senator could pay.

Unfortunately, Shockwave tended to wield those traits in pursuit of his own self-centered goals. The Decepticons benefited, yes, but only because Shockwave found it convenient that they do so. Soundwave could no more trust him long-term than he would a cloud of gorged scraplets, and he very much doubted Shockwave would care about the future of the war's survivors... provided the remainder of their species ever got around to declaring peace, of course.

Or Decepticon victory. Whichever happened first.

Starscream was—well, _Starscream:_ stubborn, scheming, and sharp in every way Soundwave might have enjoyed were it not for Starscream's bizarre mixture of narcissism and self-destruction. Soundwave also needed the panted prayers of his hypothetical devotee to be filled with sincerity instead of flattery. The difference would always feel painfully obvious to him.

...And not to be _petty,_ but Soundwave also wanted his name to sound _pleasant_ when he heard it on someone else's lips, not like the squealing of a garbage disposal in desperate need of extensive repairs.

Who did that leave him?

Only one and a half of the Constructicons were of any interest. The rest were thick-helmed boors, and all of them insular as Pit besides. Scorponok? He'd wring Soundwave out just to have access to everything Soundwave knew, and only a dead mech could've missed the stories about alien infestation. Overlord? A brainless brute too busy throwing tantrums about the use of Megatron's personal time to be worth Soundwave's own.

Tarn was out too. He had excellent taste in music, and shared Soundwave's fondness for diving into stacks of paperwork, but the rest of his disturbingly fanatic behaviors reached heights even Soundwave had never imagined possible—all of them focused on Megatron. No one could hope to come before him, and Soundwave didn't care to try.

Bombshell?

Soundwave paused to let a hard shudder work its way through his frame before tapping a lengthy code into the keypad in front of him. Primus save him from pure absurdity.

No. The mech Soundwave sought could only be found in the one place he was forbidden to look.

They'd bumped into each other several times before the war began, but Soundwave hadn't quite noticed him then, too occupied with darker, more important matters. He'd seen Prowl as an enforcer, and _only_ an enforcer, albeit an unusually competent one. The idea that they might be compatible, professionally or otherwise, had never crossed his mind. How could it, considering the events framing those early encounters?

But long, bitter wars had a strange way of modifying viewpoints, didn't they?

🎵

The first spark was unexpected, as first sparks often are.

“Soundwave. Got a moment?”

Laserbeak wasn't supposed to be back yet, was he? Soundwave looked up from the stack of datapads he'd been buried in since the loss of a vital ammunition factory and checked his internal chronometer.

Hmm. It seemed time had indeed gotten away from him a bit. Soundwave didn't actually have much to spare, behind as they all were, but Laserbeak wouldn't be interrupting unless the issue at hand warranted the action. Reports of lesser importance could and typically did wait.

He held an arm out and nodded.

Laserbeak drifted over and hovered, holding a datapad in one clawed foot. He got cozy on Soundwave's arm the instant Soundwave took the device, wiggling and fluttering and scooting closer until he could just about join in on reading its contents from his position. “Look here. Took it from the microscope's lab.”

“Perceptor?”

“That's the one.” His helm bobbed like a desk toy. “Battle plans for yesterday's attack. Prowl's work. See?”

“What perceived urgency, outdated information?”

“Just _look._ ”

Soundwave obediently skimmed the file. The first two-thirds sounded familiar to him—he had the paperwork sitting in front of him to prove it—but to his astonishment, nothing after that looked right. It'd all been thrown clean out the window.

Which was downright weird, because Soundwave was confident that the plan in front of him had actually been the superior option. He'd need to run some simulations and double-check a few numbers to be absolutely certain of that, but he'd spotted a reference to a major weakness the Decepticons hadn't noticed until _after_ the battle ended—and strangely, hadn't needed to protect.

Why hadn't the Autobots hit it? It would have saved them, what, seven minutes of potential exposure to enemy optics? Eight?

Six minutes and 32 seconds, according to the report. Fascinatingly precise, that. A conceit of some kind, or an actual calculation? The latter possibility made his helm buzz with... was that excitement? It was. But over an enemy's work, and with real life Decepticon deaths involved? Absolutely inappropriate. He swiftly refocused himself.

If this battle plan was accurate, it would've meant three Autobot deaths up front, but fewer resources drained during the eventual confrontation and only two or three prisoners taken instead of the eleven currently sitting in Decepticon cells. The inevitable rescue attempt would've been four to five times smaller, quieter, and faster—in other words, far more likely to succeed than the one the Autobots would soon be forced to carry out. Soundwave could all but guarantee the Autobots would lose more than three mechs when they struck.

So why in the _Pit_ hadn't the Autobots followed this plan?

He sat back and tapped the datapad against the edge of his desk, thinking.

“Instructions: Recharge in dock—half standard cycle, simultaneous data upload. Return. Seek additional plans, same author. If available, preferred battles: western Bitrex encampment, Polyhex branch archive, supply line 229-B3.” Those were the Autobots' worst showings of the last three weeks, and Perceptor had been spotted at all of them. No need to waste time stealing a new batch of door codes. “When found, deliver without unscheduled stops. Transfer all assistance requests until completion, new recipient: Buzzsaw. Understood?”

“Sure thing. Searching for something, or just in need of a good laugh? Because I heard the best joke—”

“Searching.” He set the datapad down and went back to combing through reports. 

“Aww.”

Oh, all right. He could sort timestamps and listen to his cassette at the same time, couldn't he? “Proceed with anecdote.”

“Okay! So, uh, this triplechanger walks into a Teledonian topless bar—”

🎵

As it turned out, all three of the original strategies for those battles were brilliant.

Not one of them had seen complete use.

🎵

He didn't have _time_ for this nonsense. None of them did. Couldn't the latest bout of infighting be postponed until _after_ the upcoming Autobot strike? Better yet, why not just skip it for now? It wouldn't kill Starscream and Megatron to go a single week without butting helms and squandering everyone's valuable working hours. At least, he didn't think it would.

If only they would give him a chance to find out.

Soundwave hunched over his keyboard, trying and failing to ignore the latest of Starscream's crowing recitations of his personal victories. Judging by their usual fight patterns, the two of them had only gotten two-fifths of the way through this particular argument, which meant he would have to suffer through their shouting and posturing for at least another twenty minutes.

 _Twenty minutes,_ when the Autobots were rumored to be starting their rescue attempt some time in the next thirty—which he was sure he'd mentioned shortly before the row began.

Not that it mattered. Megatron's ferocious pride and determination to lead wouldn't allow him to end the argument without winning it, and Starscream would push boundaries and feel around for weak spots until he'd either landed the perfect figurative hit or come within an inch of receiving a very real one. Nothing short of an active threat could put an early end to it now.

Soundwave pressed a fingertip to his crest to try to ease his helmache, wishing the Autobot rescue would begin sooner rather than later. Megatron and Starscream's squabbling was about to reach the point where one of them tried to drag him into it, and he loathed those moments with every circuit in his chassis.

Not the parts where he vocally supported Megatron. That, he would gladly do. It was just that making his loyalties plain typically led to name calling and half-baked revenge schemes set into action a few hours later, and while Soundwave hated having to waste precious time and resources on these fights, he hated being made to waste them on Starscream's extended temper tantrums even more.

Not two minutes later, Prowl granted his wish by darting into view on one of Soundwave's better hidden security feeds and motioning for a handful of burly, cannon-toting trucks to move ahead. Overcome with spark-deep relief at the good timing, (and jumping to raise the alarms before anyone could get caught off their guard and slaughtered,) Soundwave privately thought he could have kissed the mech.

He'd just have to try to kill him instead.

🎵

The never-ending war shrouded itself in a dense fog of despair. It clogged vents and clouded optics as it spread, sickening every Cybertronian to their core, and countless mechs died choking on its poisonous fumes every day. In the beginning, Soundwave had believed it to be a temporary state of affairs, listening for signs of its imminent disappearance and permanent failure to return while he worked. More recently, he'd settled into just being thankful it gave him so much to _do_ —a skirmish to coordinate, personnel files to update, prisoners to question; all the usual business. It sounded impossible on the surface, but focusing on the minute details of the slow extinction of the Cybertronian species kept him from dwelling on the increasingly inevitable outcome.

Every now and then, however, the war dragged its metaphorical feet even harder than before, causing Soundwave to wonder which experience was worse: dying from a gunshot wound, or the wait between hearing the bang and getting hit by the bullet.

Simultaneously disrupted supply lines meant mechs from both sides found themselves trapped in Protihex, dangerously low on fuel and firepower. Soundwave's ability to hold larger fuel stores than most others left him in slightly better condition, making him one of the Decepticons' best remaining options for scouting, and—and come to think of it, he'd never asked what'd driven Prowl out there that day. Habitual perimeter patrolling? The shortest straw? Desperation?

Unimportant. What mattered was that neither side could afford to lose them or the stash they'd both stumbled on, and neither of them could waste their energy on shooting the other. Not if they wanted to make it back without falling into stasis lock. Soundwave could see it in the way Prowl moved. He could hear it in the incorrectly tuned symphony of Prowl's sluggish internal systems, which he found uncomfortably familiar in both the observational and personal senses.

It was a stalemate.

They couldn't afford one of those either. He'd have to think fast.

He'd already placed most of his companions in temporary stasis to lower their fuel needs and increase their chances of surviving... but Prowl didn't know that, and Rumble still operated. If Soundwave's processors hadn't just failed him, one extra set of hands would be all he'd need to take control of the situation.

Rumble complained aloud when he received his orders, but only for show. He barely possessed the strength required to divide and fill the empty cubes Soundwave generated, never mind launching into a fight or causing a localized quake. Prowl watched the process with narrowed optics, one acid jet pointed at Soundwave.

He needn't have bothered. _Some_ mechs would've attempted to poison or destroy Prowl's cubes once they'd secured their portion, but Soundwave knew better than to try in his condition.

Besides, Prowl's willingness to show them one tiny, rusty scrap of patience and trust intrigued him. It'd been longer than he cared to count since he last witnessed anything like it. Prowl hadn't tried to take them out in some stupid, suicidal display of Autobot heroism. He hadn't complained about Soundwave's decision, or acted magnanimous and taken the credit for himself. They weren't accused of seizing more than their share while splitting the find. There were no sneering insults, no impatiently tapping feet, and no rudely vocalized questions about their motives—just reasonable self-protection, which Soundwave himself would have exercised had the situation been reversed.

It wasn't that he believed rewarding Prowl's behavior would manage to change anything of real importance. The war was much, much bigger than a single half hour truce between three mechs. He simply saw no reason to act ungrateful and throw away the rare opportunity he'd been given to spit on Autobot propaganda by proving himself a superior mech.

So he didn't.

They'd both gotten what they'd come for, and in the end, they let each other leave in peace. Soundwave couldn't have asked for much more.

🎵

A few centuries down the line, he got it anyway.

He'd been creeping down a dark corridor in an abandoned building, intending to deliver that month's recitation of injustices and abuses committed by the Senate and those who enforced their laws. His broadcasts didn't inspire many fresh recruits—they couldn't, given that most Cybertronians had finished picking sides ages back—but they kept such offenses fresh in the public memory, and they couldn't be beat when it came to making Decepticons crave bigger victories or tanking Autobot morale for a couple of days.

Laserbeak's latest recordings suggested the broadcasts _also_ succeeded at speeding up the ongoing erosion of trust in the main Autobot strategist, who'd _been_ one of those enforcers. Who could blame the Autobots for looking askance at him after hearing such tales?

Still, it had to put a serious damper on Prowl's day whenever Soundwave's recitations hit the air. With that in mind, he really shouldn't have been surprised to enter the room and find Prowl himself sitting there on the sparking, acid-eaten ruins of the makeshift broadcast system, blaster aimed at the exact middle of Soundwave's visor.

And yet, he was.

More so when Prowl chose to give him a dark and thoughtful stare instead of arresting or shooting him on the spot.

“The Iacon incident you mentioned last time you hosted,” he said, frowning. “I remember it. My superiors demoted me for demanding an investigation.”

Soundwave said nothing. At this range, his only option was to stand quiet and motionless and wait for the decreasingly likely opportunity to draw a weapon, eject a cassette, or make a break for it. He wouldn't be able to call for help for some time; _someone_ had just jammed all communications in the area, and bringing them back up would take more attention and concentration than he could spare at the moment.

He supposed he _could_ use his sonic cannon to try deafening and disorienting Prowl, but they were in a small, enclosed space. He'd be _asking_ to catch a wild shot in a bad spot—providing he didn't first disrupt the already crumbling architecture and bury them both alive.

Soundwave didn't like that option. Too self-sacrificing. Too _Autobot_.

The thought of abandoning all dignity and babbling like a frightened newbuild nauseated him, and he would sooner shoot himself in the spark than give up vital files in exchange for his freedom. Surrender was so far off the table it hadn't even entered the room.

With no suitable way to delay it, he could expect his death in about two minutes, accounting for the usual pompous Autobot speeches—maybe less, if Prowl was in a bad mood and wanted to get things over with. (If it was all the same to the cold, unfeeling universe, he preferred the idea of being killed on schedule. It'd give him more time to bid goodbye to his cassettes.)

Prowl frowned harder, if that was at all possible, and dropped his arm.

Pain blossomed where Soundwave's right knee had been moments earlier. Balance shot, he wobbled away from the door and clutched the nearest piece of rusting furniture for support, refusing to give Prowl the pleasure of seeing him kneel.

His visor glowed a bright, fiery red, filled with fury and shock. He turned it on Prowl without hesitation, silently demanding answers to unspoken questions. Why such a humiliating injury? Why not just end him then and there and be done with it? Was Prowl waiting for the "good cop" to arrive and prey on him, or planning to take him back alive and become a hero?

Prowl stepped closer, blaster once again trained on Soundwave's helm.

Then he turned to pass through the door, careful not to give Soundwave so much as a glimpse of his back. Once safely outside the room, he paused to look over Soundwave's hunched frame, murmuring half to himself and half to memories of long-dead mechs.

“...Making trouble for myself, they said.”

The door _thunk_ ed shut. Soundwave dropped onto his aft and listened, bewildered, as heavy footsteps pounded off into the distance and eventually faded out altogether.

🎵

Back in the present, a different door in a better state of maintenance slid open with the faintest _whoosh_ of moving air. It was dark in the room; the only sliver of artificial light came from a small, plain desk lamp, which sat pointed at two stacks of assorted datapads.

Soundwave didn't need to peek to know they (probably) held nothing of value. Prowl always put some kind of temptation in his way, wordlessly demanding him to prove that he could maintain the delicate balance between business and pleasure. In turn, their very presence meant he could be certain that Prowl hadn't forgotten how to walk the same line. 

It was a vital test. Soundwave wouldn't have proceeded without it. Falling out of step could literally cost them everything. If one of them decided they'd had enough and weren't feeling generous—or worse, if they got caught by someone who didn't believe the presented explanation—they'd pay for it with more than just their reputations. At least one of them would lose their life, and as the inevitable and unacceptable result of that, the lives of others.

Autobots claimed to shun the use of brutal violence against their own, yes, but treason was still treason, and termination remained a common punishment for those deemed traitors—one firmly enforced by shady figures with an eye for helpful “coincidences". Prowl was neither the only Autobot to whom such labels applied nor the most bloodthirsty of the lot.

His own faction's reaction didn't bear thinking about.

Soundwave left the desk light on to help explain away any noises and headed toward the figure stretched out on the berth in the small side room.  
He probably should have refused one more time, back when they were settling on a decision. It would've been the safer option. They'd be unhappy and unsatisfied, but at least they'd have known for sure what awaited them.

There was no room for regrets, however, and even if there had been, he wouldn't have any. The thought was a passing acknowledgment of facts, nothing more. They'd agreed to go down this path together. Now the only sure way out was for each of them to reach the end of the war alive, with their secret intact. It was an incredibly slim chance, but it was all they had.

Stranger things had happened.

🎵

Time and fate folded themselves into just over a half dozen new encounters after the shot to the knee, each a tense meeting involving the bare minimum of necessary insults or injuries. An unbroken chain of baffling allowances continued to tangle their ankles, locking them into an ever deadlier dance.

An important but little-known fact: Soundwave _loved_ to dance.

He remembered every step, though a few stood out as extra unusual: mutual assistance escaping from towering organics running the underground laboratory in which they and their comrades were being held captive; a hostage trade, Bluestreak for Buzzsaw, with a casual reminder that Autobots _usually_ considered enemy spies far more valuable than high quality snipers; pulling rank on Vortex and taking over interrogation one of the few times they captured Prowl.

The last one wasn't _pleasant_ , per se—there were other officers watching, after all, and he really _did_ need the details he tried to get before the rescue team broke in—but it was cleaner; he could confidently say that much. Kinder, if one believed it possible to apply that label to anything done in an interrogation room. The Autobot medics and psychologists would've needed to deal with far worse had he allowed Vortex's methods or trays of horror holovid implements to become involved, and the last thing Soundwave wanted was to see a mind of such high quality go to waste.

He'd spent the better part of the next century wondering if Prowl understood that.

🎵

He stopped wondering when Prowl chose to drive over one of Ratbat's wings instead of outright killing him. People who could track eight hundred moving objects with perfect accuracy didn't seem the type to have trouble successfully smashing a single immobile target beneath a front wheel.

🎵

To Laserbeak's surprise, Soundwave eventually resurrected the idea of sending him in search of outdated battle plans primarily penned by Prowl. This time, Soundwave took care to randomly change whose files were to be copied and how long to wait after each battle before making an attempt, intending for their targets to mistake temporary disappearances for unremarkable bouts of absentmindedness.

They didn't succeed in every case. Some mechs lacked the necessary clearance. Others were too tidy to keep the info hanging around for very long, and every now and then, the war experienced a brief and merciful lull. Even so, Laserbeak managed to gather enough to satisfy Soundwave's interest every couple of months.

A few decades into the process, Soundwave took note of a disturbing trend unfolding back at Autobot headquarters.

When he'd first started reviewing the files, Soundwave told himself he wanted to understand how Prowl thought so he could keep as many Decepticons alive as possible. And to his credit, he wasn't _wrong,_ exactly; he _had_ worked out and fixed a crucial flaw in the base's latest shield generation process by compiling two separate batches of unbelievably complex calculations.

As time wore on, however, it became more and more helpful to study the actual fights and ambushes that had taken place and completely disregard the written plans. The odds of any given Autobot taking matters into their own ~~foolhardy, ego-bloated, suicidal~~ two hands from the beginning and attempting ~~outrageous, ill-advised, selfish~~ heroic stunts _skyrocketed,_ forcing Soundwave to try to account for bizarre actions instead of reasonable ones. Rumble and Frenzy turned out to be unusually (if not unexpectedly) helpful with that, so it wasn't all bad, but there was something depressing about watching the work of someone so intelligent be increasingly ignored.

It didn't get any better from there. The flow of plans with Prowl's name attached began drying up, leaving Laserbeak empty-clawed. Laserbeak tried to compensate whenever he could by securing alternative articles of interest on the way out, but that was rare. Improvisation's usefulness in the field tended to rely on the user being a) a standard biped and b) thickly armored, which, as a bird, he clearly was not.

Soundwave puzzled over the change for the next year or so. Prowl didn't strike Soundwave as someone who'd pack up his toys and go home just because the Autobots didn't know what was good for them, and Soundwave hadn't heard anything about him catching sick or dying. A few months spent combing the ranks helped put two freshly placed spies in the brig and uncovered three moderately important murders for which the Decepticons had been incorrectly credited, but offered him no solutions.

Then the rumors started. Some of the whispers Ratbat harvested during his trip to map the newest location serving as Autobot headquarters referred to Prowl's latest arguments and activities with deep distaste, claiming he'd recently started dirtying an assortment of hands with tactics his comrades made sure to protest outside closed doors. Someone had even indirectly and nervously suggested he'd made one of their friends disappear.

Soundwave had picked up the occasional story about Prowl's pre- and early-war days after the shot to his knee, mostly by hacking comms or tearing the data straight out of the helms of prisoners scheduled for termination. Prowl couldn't sink any deeper into unpopularity unless he started avoiding baths and wearing a Decepticon badge, but it was clear that the Iacon incident and Soundwave's personal run-ins weren't just freak moments of compassion. Prowl had loved his job. He'd worked hard to perform it the right way and actually protect other mechs. Even a pair of corrupt Primes and an ex-enforcer pretending like Pit to be an unsullied, innocent hero-god couldn't stop him from trying his best.

If the new rumors were true, Prowl had changed tacks and hardened his spark to the point of becoming some sort of boogeymech to _both_ factions, and he'd done it just so he could finally get something worthwhile accomplished.

Soundwave couldn't deny that the decision gave Prowl a kind of dark appeal—wouldn't even bother trying—but it didn't change the fact that Prowl should never have had one in the first place. The Autobots were grossly misusing Prowl.

As a Decepticon, he was thankful for that.

As a Cybertronian? Not so much.

While plugging in and loading up the newest data slug, he couldn't help but wonder: How devoted to their cause did a mech need to be to make a major behavioral change instead of choosing to leave? How strong did they have to be to carry on alone when doing so meant ignoring their spark?

Damn the war for handing him questions without answers, and damn it further for creating a situation where they could be brought into existence in the first place.

🎵

Ravage's brains weren't trapped in his nose. His optics weren't as keen as those belonging to his avian companions, but they could still see what was going on in front of him as clear as Crystal City. Soundwave could (and sometimes did) keep secrets from the others, but not from him. _Never_ him. Ravage knew their host too well and held too many deep conversations with him for that.

Soundwave had never before openly wondered how the war's influences had changed them. They were all in Megatron's good graces, and although they weren't eating as well as they had in the early days of the war—nobody was anymore—they remained better off than they'd been while living on the street. They had regular meals, actual jobs, room for all seven of them to live, and... well, no, none of the cassettes ever got much respect from anyone other than Soundwave or Megatron.

Still, they were doing all right for themselves. And none of them had gotten killed yet, which was the nearest thing to a miracle Ravage could personally believe in.

All of which meant Soundwave had no reason to suddenly begin pondering strange and miserable what-if scenarios. Sure, the others had enjoyed the thought exercise—it beat staring at a compromised security feed showing nothing but Bumblebee idly bouncing a rubber ball against a wall—but that didn't make it right. That didn't make it _Soundwave._

It was that last batch of data. Ravage had seen Soundwave poring over the contents of the slug the night before. He'd stolen a look at them himself once Soundwave went to berth, curious about the contents despite knowing damn well what they were likely to be about.

 _Who_ they were likely to be about.

As loyal a Decepticon as he was, he would not sell his host out to Megatron. Nothing short of the willful murder of one of his fellow symbiotes could ever convince him to do such a thing. But he didn't have to like what he knew, and he didn't have to approve of it.

Which was fine, wasn't it? Soundwave was one of the smartest mechs alive, and there was no way someone that smart would ever think the other officers could be allowed to catch on. No, no—Soundwave wouldn't let them form so much as a portion of a fraction of the merest hint of an inkling about his little side interest if he could help it.

 _...If._ Such feelings had a way of making a mech act stupid at all the wrong moments. Ravage never bothered with them himself—never had the inclination—but he'd seen it happen plenty of times to other mechs, and even geniuses could overlook an important detail now and then.

They'd talk about it tomorrow, Soundwave and Ravage. They were due to head out alone for a while, busy hunting for an informant who'd oh-so-unwisely abandoned their duties and skipped town, if by 'town' one could also mean 'space sector'. He'd have plenty of time to discuss it once they were safely aboard their nonsentient shuttle. No need to even talk aloud; Soundwave could simply enter his mind and converse inside of it while they shared piloting duties. Neat and clean, with no way for prying audio receptors to listen in, just the way they preferred it.

Ravage wouldn't be able to convince Soundwave to knock it off right away; their host followed his spark too closely for that. They'd need to figure out how to let the other cassettes in on the secret while Soundwave worked on getting over his ridiculous little crush, which he would, of course, do once the reality of the situation became too obvious to ignore. It was only fair to give everyone a chance to decide whether or not they wanted to risk remaining a part of the group in the meantime.

Which also meant ensuring they wouldn't accidentally tell someone about it once they did know. Rumble and Frenzy could have irritatingly large mouths for such small spies.

Ravage stretched, front half lowered and claws extended, sighing with relief as cramped cables pulled taut beneath his armor and relaxed again; then rolled onto his side with more grace than anyone performing a sleepy flop had a right to wield.

He'd work on the solution to the twin blabbermouth problem in his recharge. Where there was a will, there was always a way.

🎵

They'd turned again, still dancing together, when Prowl unexpectedly stumbled, his spinal strut bowing and his fingertips brushing the floor, _falling—_

Soundwave found him bleeding out on the fringe of a battlefield, speakers ruined, comm torn away and crushed, both legs missing below the knee. Prowl had managed to take out his attacker, judging by the thin grey shell sprawled a little ways off, but not before they'd accomplished most of what they'd come to do. Charred components and cooling blobs of molten metal surrounded the area, forming a fresh monument to the Cybertronian capacity for mayhem and slaughter.

All that carnage, and the only thing Soundwave could see was a pair of ragged black stumps.

...It would be all right if he let go and abandoned the scene. Better to know one's limits than to risk an unnecessary injury. Nobody could blame him for making the decision to preserve himself and his career.

He could also choose to follow Prowl down, clutching the mech tight, and pray he had the strength to pull them both upright again. Risky move, that one; he'd never practiced it before.

Soundwave's spark swirled in his chassis and roared in his audio receptors as he stared, temporarily blocking out the sounds of the fight to help him focus on the ultimatum at hand. _Seize the lead or go home,_ it screamed, throwing itself against the walls of its prison. _You must choose. The time for standing still has passed._

He would never forget the expression he earned by pulling out the field repair kit typically reserved for use on his cassettes and crouching in the rubble to begin sealing off leaking fuel lines and sparking wires. Especially those optics—they'd never been so wide, or so pale a blue. And that mouth...

Soundwave allowed himself a dark and rasping chuckle as he worked. Decepticons (and a few of the stupider Autobots) liked to joke that the mech in front of him only possessed two emotions: disappointed and furious. Seeing Prowl blatantly gawk at him as though the world and everything in it had just done a handstand filled him with a warm and strut-deep satisfaction. It was almost like that look belonged to him, and him alone.

🎵

A dark blue claw traced the pliable metal of Prowl's lips, tingling as soft, even ventilations ghosted across its surface. _That_ source of pleasure had never changed. They'd been keeping these clandestine meetings for millennia, and Soundwave always worked hard to ensure that he made Prowl replicate the gasp at least once per visit – and to reward him for it.

But he'd gotten ahead of himself. He hadn't even checked to see if his earlier suggestions took.

He bent down, bringing his battle mask close to Prowl's audio receptor, and whispered the opening question.

🎵

“Prowl's pain: unbearable?” he'd asked, glancing up as the fuel injector filled with stolen pink liquid. Soundwave couldn't spare enough of his own to cover what Prowl needed. Hopefully, the dead mech had enough clean innermost energon left he wouldn't have to consider trying anyway. Even half a vial could be of great assistance, provided Prowl wasn't so fanatical about moral and faction lines he refused to accept it.

Soundwave didn't think he would. Prowl had been far too pragmatic in the past to act that stupidly self-righteous and sacrificial now.

“Reprieve desired?”

The silence that blanketed their corner of the world felt thick and smothering. Of _course_ Prowl wanted a break from it. His lower legs had been blown back to Petrex; it wouldn't feel like a romp through a rose quartz garden. How could Soundwave forget that when his hands were slick to the wrists with Prowl's energon?

“Sincere question: Prowl trusts Soundwave?”

Prowl glowered at him as though he'd just asked how to best accomplish the murder of Optimus Prime.

Soundwave hummed. Realistically speaking, one handful of wartime mercies did not a friendship make. Whatever madness had seized hold of them til now was a matter of _business_ , of both sides ensuring they limped onward a little longer in their search for a chance to seize victory. Nothing else.

Speaking even _more_ realistically, Soundwave felt certain they'd flown out of that particular air lane four encounters back—or was he meant to believe that slipping a flavoring tablet into the crunchy pink sludge of a prisoner's ration to improve its taste somehow gave the Decepticons a bigger shot at ending the war?

Never mind. Flavor tablets ingested centuries ago weren't going to help them repair injuries received today.

“Anesthetic: forbidden,” he murmured, nodding to himself. In no reality would Prowl allow himself to be knocked unconscious on a battlefield in the presence of a Decepticon commander. It was obvious, but making an assumption instead of asking would've resulted in even less trust, present and future. An oddly unappealing thought, that. “Acknowledged. Unusual proposal: Prowl accepts medicinal alternative.”

Prowl frowned and sat back, squinting at him.

“Soundwave: skilled hypnotist—”

The fury suddenly contorting Prowl's face caused Soundwave to stand up and stumble back a step, arms spread wide. He could hear defense systems activating, and having seen them in action many times before, knew Prowl to be a vent away from shooting him in the face with an acid pellet.

“Forgiveness. Harm unintended,” he said, jerking his helm in the direction of the open kit now resting abandoned on the ground. “Sole desire: ease patient suffering.”

He could see the words forming on Prowl's lips, too strongly felt to be blocked by something as simple as a missing speaker: _I'm not your damn patient._

How true! Soundwave was not a licensed doctor, no. More importantly, he wasn't _Prowl's_ licensed doctor, whoever they were. Ratchet, probably. Laserbeak's reports said Ratchet handled the core of the Autobot army himself—didn't trust anyone else to do it with half his competence, let alone half his speed. Rumor had it that Ratchet could put someone back on the field before they'd had a chance to realize they were dead. Humorous exaggeration, to be sure, but also a representation of the faith the Autobots had in Ratchet's surgical skills.

Soundwave set those thoughts aside. They were entertaining, but incapable of convincing Prowl to let him help out a little more. Cooperation could only be secured by way of proven usefulness, not anecdotes and gossip. He needed to come up with something not even Prowl could resist. As the only physical objects either of them were in a position to trade were spent shells and dead bodies, neither of which appealed to Soundwave, the next best option was sharing intangible content—vital faction secrets, for example. He'd have liked that, himself.

Too bad that one was about as likely as Megatron handing out free hugs.

No items, no money, no faction-related information. What did that leave?

“Individual data,” Soundwave said, forgetting that Prowl didn't share his ability to eavesdrop on someone else's internal conversations. It didn't seem to make a difference; Prowl folded his arms and waited, ready to hear more anyway. “Prowl documents hidden enemy ability. Sole effect: pain removal. Alertness, self-control: intact. Opportunity: rare, offered now. Satisfactory?”

A skeptical helm tilt. Nothing unexpected there; Soundwave was a Decepticon. Warnings came prepacked in his chosen faction's name. Being insulted by Prowl's reaction to his offer would be a waste of energy.

Instead, he kept still while he waited for Prowl's final decision, curious. Would the pain eventually overcome Prowl's better judgment? Was Prowl testing his patience? Was it really just that complicated a calculation?

He never found out. Starscream abruptly called for a retreat, leaving Soundwave no choice but to snatch the remnants of the repair kit and flee. He'd never dawdled before. If he took too long now, that suspicious schemer would search for the reason why—and worse, find it sitting there unable to defend itself. They could pick up where they'd left off another time.

🎵

What a secretive mech Prowl could be, keeping so much from his Prime nowadays. Did Optimus ever find out that Shockwave wasn't the first one to give the order to blow up Junkion? Because Soundwave knew. He had the intercepted comm records to prove it. What about that last memory? Did Prowl ever get around to mentioning who _really_ sent his location to the Autobots, or did Optimus still think it was some dead nobody's selfless final act? Was the Prime like the others, convinced that Prowl never mentioned a lover and had stopped showing an interest in acquiring one because he was too undesirable or too cold for such intimacies? Did he think Prowl had forgotten how to do anything but wage war?

Soundwave's claw trailed downward, tracing the sharp curves of Prowl's chin and sliding over the knot of throat cables left exposed to him as Prowl continued recharging. It would be so easy to slice them open and run. He'd done it to plenty of others in his younger years. Might even take out the voice if he dug the point in deep enough. It'd keep Prowl from screaming for help until he remembered his siren. _If_ he remembered his siren. Contrary to expectations, not every emergency vehicle did.

Soundwave gently pressed the delicate rubber pad of one finger against the thickest fuel line and closed his optics, letting his own fuel pump sync up with the slow, steady throbbing. This drumbeat had been reserved for him and him alone, and he was more than content to listen.

The other Autobots were hopeless fools. They deserved to stew in their ignorance, unaware of everything—and he did mean _everything_ —that Prowl had to offer. Their failure to learn was obviously a willful one. It'd been a long time before Prowl let _him_ find out, yes, but a) he was a Decepticon, and b) it wasn't for lack of trying. What was _their_ excuse for consistently overlooking Prowl?

🎵

Ravage pricked an audio dish at the soft sounds coming from their host, who was fast asleep on the berth above their helms. Yellow optics met yellow optics as he exchanged a surprised look with Buzzsaw in the darkness of the otherwise silent room.

In all the years they'd known him, he'd never had dreams like that.

Soundwave didn't look any of them in the optics the next morning.

🎵

The record skipped, the music repeated, and Prowl missed another step.

Soundwave stood silently reflecting on past events as he stared down at Prowl's shins. They actually _existed_ this time, which was nice. Prowl had also changed his paint scheme somewhere between then and now, and it was just as classy in person as recent surveillance photos suggested.

At least, it would've been, were it not for several sticky splashes of energon marring the pattern.

Judging by his memory—and his was an excellent one—it made for the twelfth time he, or Prowl, or both of them had found the other in a position to offer some form of mercy; the fifth time the one with the upper hand was Soundwave; and the second time he'd found Prowl in serious trouble after a battle. How did that phrase go? _Second verse, same as the first?_

“Prowl: left behind,” he noted, voice low. He glanced off to the right and back again, his helm moving far too quickly for him to have noticed anything. It was for Prowl's benefit, not his own; Soundwave already knew where the closest sets of scavengers roaming the battlefield were.

Prowl took the hint. Either that, or he missed it and decided to be cautious anyway. Soundwave didn't care which; both had the desired result.

“They're Autobots. They'll come back for me,” Prowl muttered. He fished around in the gravel and pulled out a battered blaster that looked like it would blow his hand apart long before it ever managed to get off a proper shot. “ _You_ can leave.”

Soundwave said nothing, but turned his helm to the side and looked at Prowl from the corner of his visor, visibly skeptical. _Would_ they come for Prowl? Autobots were well known for wasting resources on rescuing even their lowest soldiers, but everyone on both sides now knew of Prowl's deep unpopularity; the schism between Prowl and the others had widened by miles since the last time Soundwave met him.

The Autobots had also taken to mythologizing Optimus Prime, and Soundwave couldn't imagine a crowd of mechs clamoring to rescue the second biggest piece of shrapnel in the Prime's side. Not when punching Prowl in the face over disagreements had allegedly become a faction pasti—

Bah. He was wasting time. The comment and blaster were designed to chase him off, not represent the truth, whatever it was or wasn't.

He focused on Prowl again, visor brightening.

“Prowl's targeting systems: offline. Coordination: damaged.” Soundwave got the impression Prowl wasn't too happy with his assessment of the situation. Fortunately, they wouldn't need to waste time on any protests or arguments, as Prowl had lifted the blaster higher after Soundwave's remark, trying to aim it at Soundwave's helm.

Instead, he'd pointed it two feet to the left.

Soundwave continued while Prowl grumbled and adjusted his aim. “Permit anesthetic hypnosis, repairs.”

“No.”

“Energon loss before expected Autobot medic arrival: fatal?”

“ _No._ ” Prowl's eyebrows furrowed. Then, a bit less sharp: “Why do you care?”

Prowl really expected him to steal the kill? After last time? It made no sense.

A lie, then.

Soundwave paused to mark the rate at which energon oozed out from between the fingers of Prowl's other hand. He couldn't perform an exact calculation even if he'd known how much had soaked into the gaps in the rubble, but he'd learned enough to make a decent estimate. Unaided, Prowl could spare... ten more minutes? Maybe a bit longer if he had a large tank for his frame.

“Previous encounter discovered?”

_“What?”_

“Previous encounter discovered?” A little more urgent the second time.

“No.” Prowl made the mistake of shaking his helm. Dizzy, he braced himself with the hand that had been holding his side; a second later, he clapped it back in place with a pained grunt. Soundwave looked at the bloody hand print Prowl had left on the ground. Prowl did not. “Nobody knows.”

Fear. The belief that a dozen semi-peaceful encounters were a dozen too many when the math screamed that it _had_ to be a Decepticon plot, that risking even one more would be staring certain death in the face. Guilt over what he'd already done, and how many other lives he'd put in danger—or perhaps been responsible for losing to Soundwave at a later date in time. How many times could he have killed Soundwave, or let him die? Taken him in and torn out all his secrets? Prowl obviously had to put a stop to it.

Soundwave knew the idea well. He'd entertained it a few months back, himself.

All right. He'd have to go at this armed with a reason Prowl would accept.

“Prowl: important. Autobots need,” he said, pulling out the same kit as before. It'd seen rather a lot of use since Prowl last laid optics on it, case scratched and battered on the outside. Were it not for the remnant of the medic's symbol gracing the lid, it might've been mistaken for some kind of threat.

He laid it at Prowl's side and stepped back, folding his hands behind himself.

“What are you doing?”

“Gift. If Soundwave cannot repair, repairs: Prowl's duty. Autobots—”

“'Autobots need.' Yes, I know. You said that.” Prowl's expression turned darker, more suspicious. Soundwave wished it wouldn't. “Why. Do. _You._ Care?”

Soundwave ignored the question, still pressing. “Without Prowl, Autobots: slaughtered.”

“That's my _point!”_ Prowl snapped, waving the blaster. He sounded like he'd been trying to hold a conversation with a particularly thick-helmed newbuild for the last hour. It'd only been a couple of minutes. Such a temper, his. “That's what you _want._ ”

Soundwave shook his helm. “Prowl cannot give what Soundwave wants.”

“Of course I can't!”

“Permit repairs. Estimated tank level: 15%. Stasis lock imminent.”

Prowl started to lift the bloody hand, thought better of it, and brought the blaster hand close instead. He stared at it for a second, trying to figure out how to drag his palm over his face without putting the weapon down. When he couldn't come up with a way, he just pressed his forearm into the bridge of his nose and—after a deep breath—muttered something so unpleasant Soundwave could feel Frenzy shift inside his chest, both impressed and envious.

“Fine. _Fine._ ” Prowl dropped his arm and jerked his chin toward the kit. “But this is it. No more repayments, or bribes, or—or _whatever_ game you're playing with me. I'm not in your debt. You aren't in mine. It's _done._ ”

In Soundwave's experience, people who were secure in their beliefs rarely felt the need to keep repeating them. The warnings certainly weren't for _his_ benefit; Prowl had to see by now that he was quite willing to go along with the rules if it meant preserving Prowl's personal well-being. (Whether or not Prowl could _accept_ that knowledge was, he supposed, another story altogether.)

Soundwave also knew that pointing such things out to the opposite party tended to end badly, so he kept his mouth shut about all of that and nodded once.

“Acknowledged.” No time to argue; convincing Prowl took too long as it was. “Hypnosis? Previous offer—”

“ _No._ Just work.” Prowl sucked in a deep vent. “I'll cope.”

Now steadied by both hands, the barrel of the blaster pressed up against Soundwave's temple as he knelt. After a few seconds of that, it drifted downward, pointing toward the rubble again.

Soundwave tried to work as gently—and quickly—as he could.

Prowl didn't shoot him as he left.

🎵

Prowl's voice was thick with sleep, and Soundwave didn't think he'd seen Prowl's lips move when Prowl said it. Chances were he wouldn't even have heard it if he'd been anybody else, soft as it was; the average audio receptor could only have registered a tired mumble.

But he knew the words Prowl would say, and he knew when to listen for them. He'd been granted permission time and time again, exactly this way. This was how it always worked. He'd never gotten a single complaint.

And his audio receptors were anything but average.

🎵

“Repeat message,” he said, turning in his chair.

Soundwave's console beeped at him, audibly recognizing his order for his benefit; another moment and it began reading the text scrolling across the monitor in a halting, awkward voice. He preferred reading things in silence, but he'd been turned away from the screen when the message initially arrived, busy with the assembly of a small aerial drone. After failing to process it the first time, he'd thought it might help to hear it again while he read it for himself. Just—just to make sure it said what he thought it said. Because he couldn't quite believe that it had. It _couldn't._

“I don't get it, boss.” Rumble leaned against the arm of the chair, nose wrinkling as he scanned the message himself. “Just a buncha numbers to me.”

“Negative. Coordinates, days, times.” Soundwave tapped the separations in the fourth line while speaking. After a moment, he moved down the lines, tapping two others. “Also here, here. These: real. Others: false. Nonexistent months, impossible times, empty space.”

“Ohh. Hiding the good stuff, huh? Gotcha.” The little blue mech stood on his tiptoes and peered at the real set closest to the bottom. “Hey, this one's tomorrow! It's—” He bit his lip and reeled back. “Boss, that's—isn't that the place we're going?”

“Affirmative.”

“Weren't we keeping that secret?”

 _“Affirmative.”_ Soundwave's voice dropped low, its usual layers of musical tones making way for a darker, deeper growl. “Ground inspection plans: discovered.”

“Frag.”

“Affirmative.”

Ravage leaped up onto the worktable and sat down, curling his tail around his paws. He raised his chin high and let his optics slide partway shuttered, not bothering to hide his amusement. “That isn't _all_ they know. Is it?”

“What?” Rumble glanced from Ravage to Soundwave. “What's that mean?” And right back to Ravage. “What do you mean?”

“Negative.”

“I told you it would happen,” Ravage said, clucking his tongue. “You didn't listen.”

“Told him what would happen?”

“Ravage: smug. Unnecessary. Ravage: mistaken. Soundwave: certain.”

Rumble transformed an arm and slammed the pile driver into the floor. “What is it?!”

Frenzy immediately self-ejected and unfolded, half asleep but no less ready to fight whatever was causing the ruckus. Soundwave placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him still and turned toward Rumble.

“Quiet, all. Present situation: dangerous.”

“SO EXPLAIN IT ALREADY!” Rumble roared, returning his arm to normal so he could throw both in the air for maximum dramatic effect. _“Primus.”_

“It's _Prowl,_ ” Ravage purred. He slid downward, settling into a more brick-like shape. (Rumble noticed he was being very careful to avoid meeting Soundwave's gaze while he spoke.) “Or someone who knows about him. The Autobot medic, probably.”

“Nobody knows,” Soundwave growled.

“ _We_ know.”

“Soundwave's cassettes: Soundwave's cassettes. Knowledge not unexpected.”

“Frag's sake,” Frenzy muttered, putting his weapons away. He lifted his visor with one hand and rubbed his optics with the other. “You mean I got woke up for a _love letter?”_

 _“Not love letter,”_ Soundwave snapped.

“Uh-huh.” Rumble couldn't have sounded more unconvinced if he tried. “Thoughtcha weren't being nice to each other anymore? He sure wasn't trying to go easy on Buzzsaw last time.”

“Agreed. This...” Soundwave gestured to the message still posted on his screen, unable to offer any useful words or ideas. His mouth worked, but the only thing that managed to come out of it was, “Soundwave does not understand.”

“It's a trap,” Frenzy declared, folding his arms.

Rumble smacked the back of Frenzy's helm. “Don't be a dumbaft. What kinda ambush tells somebody where you're gonna be!?”

“No, he's right,” Ravage said. He flicked the tip of his tail at the screen while Frenzy punched Rumble back. “Look there. The other two lines—I know those. They're the battlefield repairs. The ones that were supposed to end things between you. Aren't they?”

Soundwave said nothing.

“I'm right. Prowl knows where we're supposed to be tomorrow. He thinks you'll go because you'll want to see him in person again.”

“Negative. Prowl not valid reason.”

“Hmm,” Ravage said, dropping his helm to his paws. “Good. I was worried you would.”

“Ravage: still mistaken. Original visitation plan: preserved.”

Ravage's helm popped right back up. His optics flickered so badly Rumble doubted he could even see through them. _“What?”_

Soundwave put his face in his hands and vented. He could sense everyone's optics on him, but all of the courage had drained out of his spark a good five minutes ago. Ravage was right. He really had screwed them all over.

“Soundwave cannot offer Megatron suitable explanation, subject: plan cancellation.”

The room exploded into competing protests.

🎵

Soundwave touched his chest and shifted on his feet, uneasy. How long had it been since he'd gone somewhere without a single cassette? Hosts with more than four symbiotes rarely knew a moment's total peace, what with the constant cycling in and out of their compartments; he had six, all of them saboteurs and spies he considered vital to his work. Even when he recharged, one of them stayed nearby so nobody could be caught off guard.

Today, he'd told them all to sweep the base for bugs and other devices. Every last one. He needed to know how the inspection plans leaked, and...  
And if it _was_ a trap, he didn't want them to suffer for his mistakes. Prowl would kill him, and _only_ him.

He loathed the emptiness. It was like he'd already lost them all.

“You're here.” The voice was familiar. Expected. Neutral. And for once, not welcome.

Soundwave turned toward it, concern keeping his movements small and hesitant. What would it be this time? Yet another weapon pointed at him? Something more impersonal, like a bomb? A talented killer willing to do the job so Prowl could keep his distance from the whole affair? How, exactly, was he about to be attacked?

Prowl had perched on a long ledge leading out from the nearby cliff. He sat some fifteen feet above Soundwave's helm, one leg crossed, both hands folded and resting in his lap; the setting twin suns of the world lined up behind him and bathed him in a fiery glow. Together, the height and light made Prowl hard to see, forcing Soundwave to lean back and shade his visor with a hand. He was a lowly scraplet trying to look upon a god.

Soundwave didn't know whether he hated Prowl for giving him that impression or just plain agreed with it.

“Prowl's defenses: unseen,” he replied, skipping over all the potential small talk. What else should he have said? Yes, he's here? Prowl had optics. Prowl wasn't trying to look into two suns. Prowl could spot him standing there just fine. Already had, in fact. So why bother?

A shrug. “I have no need for them if you're as trustworthy as you've been trying to convince me you are.”

Soundwave twisted to one side to lessen the light's impact and consider the statement a moment, and then chuckled. It was by no means a pleasant sound. “Soundwave notes denial absence, topic: defense _existence_.”

Prowl smirked. “Do you want to know why we're here or not?”

A nod. Of course.

“I meant what I said before. If I see you in combat, I _will_ try to kill you.”

“Only combat?”

Prowl straightened, his smirk rapidly melting into a scowl. Soundwave took the hint and clammed up. He could wait to push his luck until after Prowl finished explaining.

“You offered me the chance to learn about something you ca—something you _claim_ you can do. Twice.”

Never mind; he'd go ahead and push it after all. Soundwave laughed again, louder and more derisive. Was Prowl serious? Leading off with a death threat and then asking his enemy for a favor that would further spoil one of their best hidden tricks because... what? He was curious? Why in this planetoid's filthy crust should Soundwave show him now?

“Prowl refused twice, ended mutual assistance; reminder already given. Even if Soundwave: inclined, kindness scales: uneven. Personal preference: avoid further imbalance.”

“I know.”

It was Soundwave's turn to draw himself up in a huff. Well, then! If Prowl already knew he'd say no, why bother bringing it up in the first pl—

“I'm not giving you a choice. Either you answer my questions, or I pass details of our meetings to Megatron.”

Soundwave's visor glittered. _Blackmail._ Prowl was _blackmailing_ him. Or trying to, anyway; Soundwave had already noticed a problem with the attempt. Still, what nerve! Most impressive. Credit where credit was due.

He took a step closer to Prowl's ledge. “Prowl forgets: meetings not one-sided. If Megatron: informed, Prime also informed. Mutual destruction.”

“To a point. I'm just one mech.”

“Prowl: vital Autobot. Without, immense losses suffered.”

“And you're the glue holding the Decepticons together. Without you, they crumble. Both sides would return to even footing soon enough. But here's the thing: you're _not_ just one mech. There are six more of you—and you didn't bring them, did you, Soundwave?”

Soundwave felt his shoulders tense. “Elaborate.”

“I tell Megatron, you tell Optimus. Fine. I don't have anyone waiting for me back at base. I can either face what I did or choose to flee."

Soundwave puffed, amused. Prowl wouldn't flee, and they both knew it. Nor did he think Prowl could afford to publicly admit to all the things he'd arranged by then. Soundwave didn't have a data slug filled with the exact details of every nasty plot ever put into motion, but he knew the type of dirt that would be coating Prowl's hands like the backs of his own; they both played in the same pit of muck.

Still, he said nothing, just listening.

"You?” Prowl uncrossed his legs, unfolded his hands, and leaned forward, gripping the ledge. “Your chest is empty. I know how fast you move with them docked. I know how it changes your sense of balance. You left them all behind. They're all back at base because you can't risk anyone finding out about this leak. You _need_ them to find my source before someone else can. Which means you can't escape what you did. They'll be hurt. Killed, most likely. But you can't let them die alone, so you'll go back for them—and you'll be killed too.

“Tell me I'm wrong.”

Soundwave couldn't.

“This, reason Prowl assisted Soundwave?”

“No.” Prowl paused. “Well—all right, yes. One of several, anyway. There were some others.”

That was fair. He didn't _like_ it, but it was fair. Soundwave couldn't honestly say he'd never looked at the exchanges as a way to preserve his own metal, and he'd known who he was dealing with at the time. He had no legs to stand on as far as complaining went.

He tsked.

“Prowl leaves ledge. No answers given until footing: equalized.”

“You're hardly in a position to bargain.”

“Soundwave: hypnotist. Process not shared. Bargaining position: better than believed.”

Prowl's lips compressed into a thin, tight line. Evidently, he'd just realized he hadn't actually won this little contest of theirs. Soundwave repressed a chuckle at the sight, but let both types of satisfaction washing over his frame proceed unhindered.

“Mm. I'd hoped you would be too alarmed to remember that.” Prowl slid off the ledge, landing on the ground in front of Soundwave with a heavy thump, and then brushed off some of the dust doing so had stirred up. When he was finally satisfied, he crossed his arms under his bumper and asked, "So. Why not seize control from the start?"

Soundwave shrugged. "If trustworthiness: abandoned, Prowl never convinced."

"You really do want me to trust you."

Another nod.

"Why? What do you want from me?"

This time, he shook his helm. "Prowl cannot give what Soundwave wants."

🎵

The mask retracted. Soundwave winced when the first rush of warm, volcanic air hit the exposed and scarred mesh, just as he did every time, missing the soothing chill of the Decepticons' underwater base. His injuries were old, yet remained sensitive to rapid temperature changes. The mask served to protect them from irritation and keep them out of sight of prying optics—after all, scars only helped to enhance the image of those who wanted to be known for surviving despite all odds. Mechs who built their reputation on being nigh untouchable could not afford to go around visibly sporting evidence to the contrary.

He pressed his lips to Prowl's pauldron, and then pulled away just far enough to vent against the metal, letting his thoughts slide into the gentle ache it inspired. Best to acclimate himself now; it'd hurt even more soon enough. Prowl's frame would grow hot, turning the delicate pulse into pins and needles and lighting his face on fire in all the worst (and best) ways.

Soundwave's claws slid off Prowl's throat, sweeping across collar plating and over the swell of Prowl's bumper before slipping down the side, there to spread out on the recharge slab and support him as he bent down to trail more kisses along the outer edge of Prowl's upper arm.

He would happily suffer another thousand tiny, burning lances before the night was through.

🎵

They'd both looked for more comfortable seating, decided against giving up a potential head start on making a break for it if things went south, and settled for leaning up against the cliff side instead. Soundwave let his gaze wander Prowl's frame, thankful that his visor hid his true line of sight. Satisfied that there were no secret weapons about to get pulled on him, he began focusing on points of personal interest while Prowl talked to him. The enforcer decals, for example—how long did Prowl plan to wear them? Those forces no longer existed. Hadn't existed in ages. Prowl's attempt to keep himself grounded in his old identity in the face of the demands of the war, perhaps? It made sense, given the changes he'd already been made to undergo.

"I realize that I have no good way to tell whether you're being honest," Prowl said, tilting both his helm and a hand to the side in what Soundwave figured for reluctant admission.

Soundwave nodded. "Agreed."

"I also know that you have very little reason to tell me the truth," Prowl continued. He paused for a second or two, waiting for another reply; when Soundwave failed to immediately fill the silence, he gave up and moved on. "But I haven't found a single shred of evidence to support your claim, and I'd rather not go through another near death experience just to find out you're lying, so... I suppose I'll try playing along."

Soundwave stopped staring at Prowl's waist long enough to snip, "Prowl expects answers or audience?"

Prowl huffed and glanced away for a moment. Soundwave wondered what it was Prowl didn't want him to see.

"Point taken. Okay," he said, falling into what Soundwave thought had probably been his interrogation face once upon a time. Not too different from Prowl's usual stern expression—a bit more intense and unwavering focus, a smidge less open suspicion—but it still gave Soundwave the impression that, had he been a lesser mech, his feet would have spontaneously welded themselves to the floor. There was such _power_ behind those optics. "If you really can hypnotize other mechs, why don't you just..." He wiggled one hand uselessly for a second. "You know. _Do_ that?"

Soundwave shrugged. "What point? Other tactics perform well. Unnecessary."

"It'd be more efficient. Faster. You could brainwash an entire team."

"Negative."

"Negative?"

Soundwave lifted both hands and formed a circle with them, fingers touching at the top and thumbs touching down at the bottom. "Individual mechs: easy. All focus directed." He pulled them apart and made two separate rings, one with each hand. "In pairs, focus: split. Harder." Then, spreading his fingers out and curling them into ten claw-like shapes, not a single completed circle in sight: "Indirect, groups: weakest. Results not worth energy used."

"What about the individual? Wouldn't that be worth it?"

Soundwave dropped his hands again and shrugged. "Soundwave: powerful, intelligent, informed. Other tools: faster, simpler, more predictable."

"So you've never used it on, say, me."

"Negative."

🎵

Prowl let out a quiet grunt as Soundwave bit down on delicate pressure sensors hidden beneath his wrist armor. Soundwave froze, teeth still compressing the metal, waiting to see if Prowl would wake. One leg suddenly pulled itself into a half bent position; in another instant, it had relaxed just enough to drop toward one side, revealing the sensitive joint at the top.

Soundwave shifted so he wouldn't see it. Too early in the dream for him to move there. He needed to play Prowl in time with the dream he'd written. Anything else might wake Prowl and cut it short.

He leaned back, pulling Prowl's arm up off the bed with him, and licked along the palm, pausing only to draw a spiral in the center with the tip of his tongue. It slipped between two fingers, dipping into the space between them to brush against a wire, and then up, until he ran out of metal. So deprived, he swiftly took the fingers into his mouth and sucked them more hungrily than he'd intended, one hand absently drifting over his own panel. Nothing like the real thing—flat and blocky instead of ridged and round, no lights warming his mouth, a notable absence of the sharp scent of ozone—but enough to sate him for another moment, and more importantly, to make Prowl twitch again, doors sliding back and forth.

Soundwave set the fingers free with a soft sigh and nuzzled Prowl's hand before placing it back down, leaving it palm up to ensure the air from Prowl's leg vents would tickle it as it dried.

Soon. Patience. Patience...

He turned and set a knee on the berth.

🎵

"Prowl believes Soundwave?"

He hated when mechs wasted his time looking for obvious answers, yet there he was doing the exact same thing to someone else. The intensity of the internal cringe his hypocrisy inspired threatened to cause his insides to implode.

But the question couldn't be avoided. He would, and did, put up with a great many things—bluntness, a pointed weapon, blackmail; anything he'd encounter in the everyday workings of the Decepticon army—but he would _not_ stand there and let himself be treated like a fool. Either Prowl would do him the courtesy of speaking the truth or he'd get nothing else out of this discussion.

"I'm—I don't know yet."

Ah. Good. Honesty. A tiny step forward. Prowl had just bought himself a few more answers. Soundwave nodded and motioned to him with one hand.

"Continue."

"You offered to use it as a painkiller. Twice. Is that all you can do with the ability?"

Soundwave laughed. It was an ugly, dark, metallic noise, too deep to qualify as a cackle but just as unsettling.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Prowl muttered.

Why didn't Prowl look more displeased with that answer? Certainly no _other_ Autobot would've shared Prowl's lack of upset over the discovery that Soundwave could make a grounder flap their arms and leap off a mountaintop if he wanted. They wouldn't even be standing in front of him anymore, all their bravado abandoned in the dust cloud formed by their hasty departures.

"So if you wanted, you could... hmm. Make me flap my arms and leap off that mountain?"

Soundwave laughed again, the sound brighter and more genuine than before. This time, it was Prowl's turn to be confused.

🎵

Soundwave crawled the rest of the way onto the berth, careful not to nudge Prowl's legs with his own. Both hands traveled over the push bar jutting out of Prowl's chest and along the bottom of his bumper as he felt his way to the gap between it and Prowl's abdomen. It always thrilled him when he slid his claws just inside, knowing Prowl knew how much damage he could do if he decided to rip and tear instead of scratch or pet. Somewhere, not too much further inside, a small sun sat waiting to blind whoever dared to look upon it—or to try crushing it in their grip.

He did neither, letting the claws pull up thin curls of black paint as they dragged over thick, flexible plates before sweeping his palms back up and to the sides, clearing the shavings away. Slender silver lines whispered to him tales of where he'd just been, and of where he would soon go; he pressed grateful lips to them in turn and deactivated his vision to help him listen.

The sound of something snapping open and hissing was first to catch his audio receptor. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether it had been him or the sleeping mech below—but no need to turn his HUD back on and find out. He could sense the increased heat rising from beneath him, feel the pelvic plates sliding as they rearranged themselves under the fingertips he danced over Prowl's hips and along the outside of both thighs, admiring their power.

Prowl wasn't a marksmech, and he wouldn't be winning any prizes in a boxing ring, but Soundwave had seen him deliver kicks a feral zap pony would envy. It took Hook repairing quite a few crushed components before mechs started getting the idea that they should probably bind Prowl's legs together when holding him captive. Primus help them (him, help _him_ ) if Prowl ever learned that trick Wheeljack was known to use.

He slid a hand beneath the left one and lifted it, raising it so that he could kiss Prowl's knee and then press his cheek to the side, venting. Never mind Wheeljack's trick. That was the wrong kind of pain. Prowl had crushed Soundwave between his legs many a time before now, trapping him close, giving him no choice but to push deeper when the sensations had built near high enough to shake Prowl's dream apart at the seams, and the sweet, breathless burn of his lateral plating beginning to crumple under the strain always threatened to flood Soundwave clear through to his visor.

Soundwave switched his sight back on and shook his helm, clearing the memories out of it. The tire over his shoulder demanded his attention; it could neither nibble its own treads nor spin itself, and tonight, he was nothing if not a servant devoted to pleasing every inch of Prowl's frame he could reach.

🎵

Prowl had taken to pacing the ground in front of him, though he never quite gave Soundwave a perfect shot at his back, clearly lost in thought. It didn't seem to Soundwave the kind of thing that needed much thinking about, but then, he wasn't the tactical genius the stolen plans had proven Prowl to be. Which wasn't to call himself a slouch; he was still one of the best options the Decepticons had when it came to formulating a strategy and didn't foresee that changing any time soon. Nevertheless, it was like comparing the value of the finest mesh cape constructed on Cybertron to that of a woven cloak imported from another planet. 

He was in the middle of idly wondering whether woven cloaks still retained their old value, now that Cybertronians were wandering from organic world to organic world and could just snatch them up in person, when Prowl turned and pointed at him without so much as a warning vent. Startled by the sudden movement, Soundwave dropped partway into a fighting stance before realizing that Prowl had gone back to asking him questions.

Slowly standing up again—couldn't be too careful—he tapped one side of his helm and jerked his chin in Prowl's direction. _Repeat that?_

"I said, does it have to be something a mech already wants to do?"

Oh. So Prowl hadn't quite gotten over the paranoia from last time. Not unexpected; it'd take _most_ mechs more than a couple of decades to confront such worries and get them properly handled. Mechs like them had it even worse.

"Prowl never hypnotized," Soundwave replied, careful to keep his volume low. Sounding loud or defensive would make that statement harder to trust.

"Fine. Pretend I believe that."

Soundwave gave him another skeptical look.

"I know," Prowl said, waving it off. "I know. Do it anyway."

Soundwave vented, but nodded and got to work rousing his imagination. There were worse things he could be asked to do than to slide into the same fantasies he occasionally let himself form while off duty and alone. The all-important question was now in which direction, exactly, those fantasies were about to travel.

"Prowl's desire, refusal: simultaneous. Unusual. Potential request qualities: political, self-destructive, personal..."

The break in vent pattern Soundwave heard after the last suggestion told him the answer before Prowl's words could. Fire shot through his lines and heated his frame so quickly his HUD actually alerted him to the unexpected temperature spike and suggested he activate basic medical diagnostic routines. He dismissed it and rearranged his stance to allow for slightly better air flow before folding his hands behind his back and lifting his chin.

"Prowl seeks interface content," he declared, ignoring the vaguely choked sound that thrashed its way out of Prowl's throat. Better to get that knowledge out in the open, even if it meant being blunter than Scavenger's wits. They could now skip straight past all the time they would have wasted on making cagey remarks, second-guessing themselves, and trying not to insult one another while explaining why it was such an awful thing to want. A few quick recalculations and Prowl would recover from the shock. It'd be fine. Or it wouldn't. Either way, they'd get to the end of the meeting a lot faster like this. "Prowl desires Soundwave. Unacceptable. Distracting."

Soundwave found it rather comforting to know that he hadn't been the only one affected.

Prowl, on the other hand, briefly considered the pros and cons of mortified screaming.

"If urge: satisfied, Prowl's thoughts: freed. Real Soundwave: dangerous, forbidden, self-guided. Imagined Soundwave: safe, accessible, controlled. Solution: Design acceptable experience, satisfy curiosity, discard, resume previous activity patterns. Correct?"

That had to be about the shape of it. Prowl wouldn't come to him unless he was desperate to find some kind of relief. If Soundwave had any sense of the mech after this long, it meant Prowl had already exhausted everything short of mnemosurgery and murder, and neither of those were valid options. For one thing, Prowl wouldn't let a random shrink dive in and start rearranging a helm filled with sensitive faction secrets even the second dirtiest player in the Autobot ranks wouldn't know. For another, the Autobots weren't presently prepared to cope with a crazed Megatron leading the entire Decepticon army to their front door.

No, no. Given a limited choice between what Soundwave suspected was the upcoming plan and actually sleeping with the enemy, Prowl was bound to pick the former.

And he did. "That is correct," Prowl replied. After more than a little hesitation, he added, "I want you to—to come up with a—if you're willing to—"

Soundwave leaned forward, visor bright, patiently waiting for Prowl to resurrect the sentence that had just faded out and died on his lips. Soundwave's frame burned, anticipation and hope crowding out the coolant that should have been flowing through his lines. Oh yes, he was willing. No question about _that._

"Just—be quiet and take notes," Prowl said, his voice a bit too sharp and his words coming a bit too fast. "I'll give you some options for what I want in a dream. I expect to be given the finished script before you begin working. When it's over—finished—then we will each go our separate ways. Permanently. Do I make myself clear?"

Soundwave stood straight once more. "As Prowl commands."

🎵

He froze in place with one hand behind the small of Prowl's back—it had been cautiously wiggling up toward the light bar, hoping to toy with the wires below—and one in the process of lifting Prowl's other leg as well. Noises outside of Prowl's door, the thud of a fall and a surprised yelp. Someone about to come in? An assassination in progress? That wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to be alone tonight, and he hadn't authorized any such action before he left. But if Starscream had thought to try some idiot stunt in an attempt to prove himself worthy of attention...

He didn't dare vent. The sounds were enough to lift Prowl partway out of his sleep, a brief flickering of his optics and an incoherently mumbled something with a questioning lilt toward the end signaling how close he was to waking. Prowl's upper half stretched in a small arc, and Soundwave thought for sure he'd have to abort the encounter—but another few seconds and Prowl collapsed back onto the berth, helm flopping to one side, sliding back into the slightly uneven venting from before.

Whoever had fallen down outside said something too muffled by the door to understand, picked themselves up, and kept moving. Only when the footsteps finished fading and disappearing did Soundwave resume his part of their little arrangement, sliding back to settle onto his belly and bury his helm between Prowl's legs.

This, he loved more than anything. Proper connection was bliss, a moment of contentment and pleasure and _togetherness_ snatched out from under the noses of their respective leaders despite the irritating restrictions on its acquisition, but this? It was like living in the afterspark. He could see Prowl, feel Prowl, hear him, smell him, _taste_ him, and only a fresh cube swallowed on the brink of starvation could hope to rival the experience. Red lights cast a hot, inviting glow on small, sensitive black and white plates and shifted the bright pink wetness of Prowl's valve into something like magma; the sight of the first droplet to coalesce and slide down to the dull metal of the berth prompted the fire burning inside Soundwave's own frame to reach similarly volcanic levels with alarming swiftness. 

Soundwave ignored the scorching pain as he lapped at the edges of Prowl's valve, focused only on the way Prowl's venting pattern changed when he detoured toward the inside of a thigh or the underside of Prowl's spike. (It twitched with Prowl's hips, so he pulled his hand away from Prowl's back to steady it, wrap around it. He would get to that when he got to it; for now, the occasional light stroke would suffice.)

It'd been too long since the last time. He'd been rushed by the unexpected threat of an organic group's attack the following afternoon; there was no time to enjoy the way Prowl's mouth always drifted open when Soundwave moved closer and licked a streak up the middle. Or the tiny, nigh inaudible whimpers that escaped it when his tongue pressed in, teasing, offering promises he only sometimes kept. And he hadn't been able to make a wicked game of adjusting the speed of the fingers that, when he _did_ follow through, eventually found their way inside so that their movements would stretch the limits of Prowl's hypnosis-weighted sleep to _just_ below the breaking point.

Tonight, he had all the time he needed and then some.

Ah! And there was the gasp.

🎵

Prowl woke to the sound of his own ventilation system gulping down deep drafts of already overheated air in a desperate attempt to cool his frame, bolt upright and hunched forward, beads of condensation dripping off his trembling limbs and falling to the recharge slab below. The pale pink liquid spattered across his abdomen mirrored the tiny pool leaking from below; between them, a few thin lines continued to paint themselves down his slowly depressurizing spike.

He hadn't—it was—not like that; not in _millennia_ —

Somehow, despite his inability to focus through the emptiness telling him that his valve was missing something, that it _needed_ something, Prowl made it into his quarters' wash racks. He couldn't remember how he got there. He could barely remember why he'd gone into them in the first place. Not until the spray kicked on.

Prowl pressed himself back against the wall and let the gentle solvent run down his frame, covering his face with both hands as the evidence of Soundwave's effectiveness slowly slipped down the drain.

The meeting was a mistake. The _dream_ was a mistake. He should never have given in, never have sought assistance from the source of his ongoing troubles. He knew, as he set one foot on the edge of the rack and let one hand drop to slide ever more south, that he had made a serious miscalculation regarding the outcome of his plan.

And maybe a bit more than that.

🎵

"I'm telling you, boss, it worked. How long's it been since that time? Fragging _years,_ and he don't contact us?" Rumble scoffed and folded his arms. "Got it outta his system, just like he said."

Soundwave's optics stayed locked on the part of the datapad that, if given a choice, he would never have wanted to see. The twins were trying their level best to downplay the situation and make the old, familiar longing fade before he could be swept away by it, and he appreciated how devoted they were to making sure he stayed as safe as he tried to keep his cassettes, but it was too late for all of that. It'd been too late for that since the day Prowl had asked him to spin a dream out of thin air and hypnotize him into reliving it back at the Autobot base. He was always going to end up here, like this.

He wished he'd known that before he'd agreed. As foolish as Prowl had been to request it, twice damned was he himself for having given in to his ridiculous daydreams and gone along with the wretched plan. If he'd stopped to think, _really think,_ he might've known—might've _guessed,_ if nothing else—that Prowl was too far gone. He would've realized that the offer Prowl thought up was not a bottle of vintage engex, but rather a cheap ration laced with delayed action poisons: satisfying only in the moment, and barely then at that.

The first time they noticed something was up, Ratbat had invaded a camp hidden deep in a series of caverns, busy following his nose to a store of rations the Decepticons were hoping to salvage after an upcoming raid. Prowl was there, yes, but none of them expected that to matter; he had, after all, made it clear that the receipt of Soundwave's 'gift' would be the end of their long and questionably traitorous association.

That was before Ratbat spotted an oversized blue and white mech coming out of the cave which had been designated as Prowl's, walking in a manner which suggested the two had _not_ been attending to official business. It made a strange kind of sense despite Prowl's heavy unpopularity; lighthearted, open, friend-a-minute types they were not, and who better to understand that about them than each other?

Laserbeak had turned away when Ratbat made that report, unable to look at what he expected would be his host's crumpled, disappointed face and unwilling to claim the moment for a well-warranted "I told you so."

But Soundwave seemed fine. He took it much better than any of them had expected, simply nodding and stating that it pleased him to know his project had achieved the desired results before continuing on with some minor repairs to the base's loudspeaker system.

Then one day, Ravage noticed that the obnoxious Spec Ops mech he'd been shadowing on and off for several weeks reported to Prowl 19% more often than any of the others... and consistently smelled of small doses of fresh paint.

So what? The best spies and shady types got more attention than the others, and it wasn't as if their job was well known for being a cushy one. If Soundwave didn't spend so much time behind the lines, he'd worry more about his own paint job; the cassettes had a real knack for scraping it up while climbing or perching on him for rest or a good view. If anything, they should look into whether it'd be possible to poach the mech and add him to their own ranks.

Several months later, when Buzzsaw combed through video footage and mumbled something about Prowl standing closer and closer to a certain red and yellow comms mech at every officer meeting, Soundwave's fingers wrapped tight around his ration cube. The subsequent mention of mirrored poses and elevated temperature readings forced Soundwave to go get a wet-dry vac from the closet while Buzzsaw watched with his helm cocked to one side, pondering the broken glass in silence.

Now? This time, he—this time, he...

"Uhh, okay then, Boss," Rumble said a little too loudly, smacking his hands together to cut through Soundwave's brooding. "Guess that's it for now! But, um, you look kinda _out of it,_ so... how about I take the pad back, and you get some recharge? Yeah?" He didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Yeah. Good idea. I'm just. Gonna go ahead and do that."

Rumble gently tugged the datapad out of Soundwave's grip. He passed it to Frenzy, who switched it off, folded it, and stuffed it into a thigh compartment before Soundwave could come up with a single word of protest.

"Too many third shifts, Boss," Frenzy said, moving to steer Soundwave to berth by pushing on the back of his leg. It took him a few seconds to remember that he'd have to walk to get there. "You're lagging like a bulldozer on a racetrack. Forget the report, okay? We got it. Nothing important this time anyway."

Still unable to form a satisfactory verbal defense, he just nodded and went along.

No matter how much he scolded himself for dwelling on what should've amounted to petty social gossip, Soundwave couldn't help wondering whether he was the only one heading into recharge with an unsatisfied craving that night.

🎵

Soundwave set his teeth into Prowl's push bar as he lowered himself onto the leaking spike bit by maddeningly little bit, biting it as if it would help him bite back the growl of frustration and hunger bubbling up from deep inside his tank.

Sometimes he thought it was as much a punishment for being a Decepticon as a gift for being himself, doing things this way; Prowl _had_ to have known how badly Soundwave would want to throw caution aside and ride him like something out of Six Lasers—and just how much he couldn't. No wild, unrestrained bucking, helm thrown back and vents ragged. No ferocious, rolling tangles of tarps and limbs, of snarls and savage scrapes. No ecstatic screams, no grand promises babbled into throat cabling, no sweet whispers between desperate kisses. Just another test, this one tougher than the first, demanding that he always be as patient as the master planner himself and suffer through the same safe, slow attentions he delivered. Just restraint without chains, torture without a touch.

What glorious cruelty! How gladly he endured it.

Soundwave couldn't help the hiss that escaped him as he finally pressed their hips together again. He let go of the push bar and vented through his nose, visor deactivated to help him focus on the sensation of fullness and savor it like he'd never feel it again. It took a few moments for the shakiness in his limbs to disappear, replaced by the urge to touch and connect; he filled the time by running his glossa over his teeth and imagining Prowl's sinking into _his_ metal. Some frag-giddy scrap of his mind told him he wouldn't want to repair the mark if Prowl did.

Cautiously, delicately, he slipped his fingers between Prowl's almost as slowly as he'd settled onto Prowl's spike—Primus, he was going to _die_ if he didn't get going soon; the wait was murder. (Was this how Prowl would finally kill him? Interface? What a way to go.) Clutching Prowl's hands in his, he shifted them up and over Prowl's helm, following them forward. Harder to move this way without sliding them both up and down along the berth, but it was a sacrifice willingly made. He needed to feel close, to lean in and soak himself in the sheer heat rolling off Prowl's frame. For now—only ever for now, and not a nanosecond longer—Prowl was his, and he was Prowl's, and he needed himself to know it.

At long last, he began the process of raising himself to his knees again, a hundred curses darting through his mind with every upward inch. It wasn't fair, having to move away just to be able to chase the thrill of Prowl's spike sliding inside, but he did it all the same, once, twice, more. His chronometer ticked away, counting along with every motion, every shift in response.

Two minutes until Prowl's doors flicked with more than his movement. Six minutes until Prowl's brow furrowed just so and his hips twitched in tiny, out of sync bursts. Eight and a half minutes of restrained interfacing until the hands Soundwave was holding tried to break free of his grip, instinctively searching for the warm presence Prowl could sense even in his sleep. He let them, placing his palms flat on the berth instead. One eventually found his wrist and held tight; the other curled into empty air, fingers twitching when Prowl's hips did.

Coolant now coated Soundwave's frame, beading on the dark blue metal and rolling down his chest glass. Fearing that it would fall and somehow wake Prowl, Soundwave slowed himself even further, but it made no difference; he could hear sleep-sluggish systems begin to speed up as Prowl drifted closer to the surface. The dream had unraveled at the corners, no longer as steady a presence in Prowl's mind.

Prowl shifted, legs moving restlessly, back strut twisting in small arcs to one side and then the other. Soundwave slipped an arm behind it and sat up, pulling Prowl along with him.

🎵

It was perfect. He'd been given everything he'd asked for, and no matter how many times he went over the script and recording, he couldn't find a single thing out of place. Not on the surface. Not hidden in coded words. Not in subliminal messaging, or patterns in the music, or the way it had been transferred—nothing! Not a _damned_ thing about the incident bore a single marker of being even a _molecule_ out of place. Soundwave had completed his assignment with a level of honesty and trustworthiness Prowl had believed extinct in the Decepticon faction.

The only problem was that it failed to do what Soundwave promised it would.

Oh, sure, technically speaking, it worked. Prowl recharged, had powerful dreams of an illicit encounter, and woke up hotter than a patient with a case of Ferro-Fever. _That_ part went exactly as planned.

It was the _aftermath_ for which he couldn't find a way to account. Nearly a year had passed now since he'd been foolish enough to make this deal with the devil, and every day brought new and higher levels of frustration. Hands didn't work. Toys bartered for or purchased in secret so nobody would question the sudden need didn't work. Trying to find satisfaction in the next best mechs he could locate successfully quenched the fires, yes, but only for a night; the mornings after invariably presented him with a breakfast of toasted guilt and overcooked longing from which the inadequate substitutes couldn't rescue him.

If anything, they were a glass of bitter juice adding to the difficulty of swallowing everything. They could have been the right size, the right shape, or the right sound, but even as he ran his hands over their plating, he knew it wasn't enough. It hadn't been enough since the makeshift radio station, and he suspected it wouldn't be enough until he got what he really wanted.

No. No point in lying to himself anymore. It hadn't worked so far, had it?

What he _needed._

🎵

"Hope you know what you're doing, Boss," Frenzy said, holding out the latest message.

Soundwave hoped so too.

🎵

"One more. That's all."

Soundwave shook his helm. "Negative. Connection terminated. Prowl's declaration."

"I know what I said." Prowl took a step forward. "It's just—it was insufficient. You didn't finish the job."

Soundwave took a step back and glowered down at him, visor burning a bright red. "Offense taken. Soundwave's work: complete. All parameters met. If dream: insufficient, problem: Prowl's. Soundwave cannot comply. Sole outcome: Prowl craving continues. Prowl repeats outside satisfaction search within permissible bounds, failures, similar meetings. Negative. Dream repetition hurts Prowl. Unwanted result."

His voice slowly lost its sharp edge, growing soft and quiet toward the end of his reply. Gentle, even, like the hands he longed to run over Prowl's frame. If he could make this go away, snap his fingers and say that Prowl never again had to struggle with this impossible interest of his...

Soundwave shifted his weight to his other foot, ill at ease with his own train of thought. He _could_ do that, he supposed. It'd be within his abilities to force Prowl to stop thinking about him that way. Prowl could go back to seeing him the way one _should_ see an enemy. The right implanted suggestion and it'd be over, quickly and painlessly.

For Prowl, anyway. He himself wouldn't be allowed to forget; Soundwave couldn't use his powers on his own mind. But the thought of forcibly locking down some portion of Prowl's mind, of reaching in there with his voice and twisting Prowl around, making Prowl do or think what he wanted—wouldn't that be hurting Prowl too? How could he do that? How could _anyone?_

Damned if he did and damned if he didn't. Either way, Prowl suffered. Either way, he would too.

"— _o_ you want?"

Soundwave's gaze had drifted off to one side. He snapped it back to Prowl's face, where it belonged. "Apologies. Replay question."

"What result _do_ you want?"

"Prowl cannot give what Soundwave wants."

Prowl snorted. Soundwave thought it sounded more amused than derisive, but he couldn't be completely sure. "A familiar refrain."

They stood in silence for a minute, each waiting for the other to say something else. When Soundwave failed to respond, Prowl shook his helm and sighed.

"Another idea, then. Are you willing to hear me out?"

Soundwave nodded and motioned for him to speak.

"Plant the dream again. No, no, hold on!" Prowl quickly held his hands out as Soundwave straightened up, visor flaring once more. "I'm going somewhere new with this, I promise. Just listen. All right? You plant the dream again, exactly like before. But this time, you, uh..." He trailed off for a second, one hand now spinning a circular gesture of helplessness, trying to think up a suitable description of the task. "This time, you finish the job."

_"Soundwave's work: complete. All parameters—"_

"No! You're not hearing me. Stop. Listen." Prowl cleared his throat. "This time, _you finish the job._ "

Something about the way Prowl emphasized the final words made Soundwave clam up, eyeing Prowl with no small amount of suspicion. Certainly Prowl wouldn't ask him to kill Prowl afterward; that idea shot so far beyond the realm of possibility it was about to discover proof of Primus's existence. It was something else. The general physical restlessness, the way Prowl's optics kept flickering to and away from different spots on his frame, the slow yet still somehow uneven venting...

Oh.

He pointed at himself. "Soundwave."

Prowl nodded.

He turned the pointing finger on Prowl and aimed it at Prowl's modesty panel. "Finishes job."

Prowl nodded again, slower.

_Oh._

"What reason, dream inclusion? If Soundwave: present, dream—"

"—Is a form of protection. If I'm awake, it's obvious that I know what we're doing. If I'm recharging, it's... It looks different. It buys me time. They'll think my mind has been tampered with, that it's just—"

_"SOUNDWAVE NEVER—"_

"I know!" Prowl blurted, holding his hands up again. He paused, then, considering the outburst while he looked over Soundwave's bristling, furious form, eventually choosing to repeat it in quieter, surer tones. "I know. I'm—I didn't mean it that way. I don't." He frowned harder than usual. "But they _will_ think it. It'll be their first thought about you every time."

They looked away from each other, each clenching their jaws and balling their fists. Prowl was right, and they both knew it. Soundwave could have appeared at the Ark's door with a crystal arrangement and an engraving kit, and it would still be perceived as an evil Decepticon plot with a heaping helping of brainwashing in play.

That didn't make it any easier to like. And it didn't make Soundwave hate the other Autobots any less.

"It protects you, too. Not from the Autobots, but..."

"Soundwave's comrades?"

"Yes. If it looks like a plot to the Autobots—"

"Decepticon optics register similar concept. Spin decision, rumor control: Soundwave's."

"Exactly."

Soundwave felt a sudden surge of tangled emotions escape his spark and clog his throat. Burning resentment over the state of the war dripped through a wild morphobot's patch of suffocating loneliness, clinging tentacles of hope, and bitter rust scraped from the edges of the option before them, inflaming the surrounding metal until he wanted to cough, or retch, or perhaps even choke to a much less complicated death on the spot.

"Prowl sneaks into—"

"Soundwave. Can you see me getting past your security by myself?" Something approaching a wry, if tired, smile tried to crawl onto Prowl's face. It only got about halfway there, but Soundwave chose to count it anyway. "More importantly, can you see anyone _else_ buying that?"

The tangle finally forced itself out as a dried-up huff of resignation. No, he supposed not.

"Soundwave sneaks into main Autobot base? That, easier. Much easier."

Oh, now _that_ was an expression. He didn't know what it meant, but it sure meant _something_.

"No! Not—you can't be—no." Prowl cleared his throat. " _No._ I'll be going to another outpost soon. I'm sure you'll figure out when and how."

"Affirmative."

Prowl snorted again. "Get to me without causing trouble. Include a trigger, so I won't have the dream until then. Follow along with it, and leave when you're done."

"Soundwave departs alive?"

"If you don't give me a reason to change my mind."

Soundwave began readying the same script as last time, looking for a good spot to insert an activation command. He just needed to know what it would be before he could start. That, and one more thing.

"Afterward? Interactions terminated?"

"You know the answer to that by now."

🎵

Prowl thumped back onto the berth, biolights molten beneath Soundwave's touch and optics finally blinking online. The icy color Soundwave had long since grown accustomed to seeing outside Prowl's quarters was nowhere to be found, replaced with a blue glow like the tip of a welding torch.

He tilted his helm and allowed himself the smallest of smiles before reaching up to cup Prowl's cheek and trace the mesh with a gentle claw. Prowl was so beautiful this way, too groggy to focus on the war around them, half-drowned in his body's responses and trying to remember which end of the real world was supposed to be up.

Soundwave almost wished he could trade his ability to read minds for the power to freeze time.

Almost.

"Mmm. That one was—" Prowl lifted a hand a few inches off the berth and made a sort of helpless, flailing gesture. Unable to break through his mental fog long enough to think of a helpful ending for the sentence, he opted to drop his hand again and mumble "It was."

Soundwave offered a small nod in reply. He didn't need compliments when he could feel a sense of lazy satisfaction drifting toward him and beaching itself on the shores of his mind. Besides, Prowl wouldn't keep these appointments with him if he habitually provided an insufficient amount of pleasure.

He pulled his knees in closer to Prowl's sides and pushed up onto them, letting Prowl's spike slip free. The fluttering that followed its loss served as an unwanted reminder of what else he craved—and worse, how desperately—forcing Soundwave to shutter his optics tight and bite down on his lower lip until it threatened to bleed, smothering the urge to ask with a fresh dose of pain. They'd never indulged in a second round before. They couldn't. Never had enough time for all that went into it, for one thing, and it wasn't _really_ as if they...

Neither of them would leave those they'd chosen to serve, which meant they had no other way to let the parts of themselves that hated being stuck in the war rebel against it. These appointments were ~~treason~~ tension relief. That was all. They'd be in trouble as soon as the guilt became too much for one of them to bear, or when Prowl decided he needed to flip over yet another leaf and make up for his wrongdoings. For now, Prowl needed a connection and a release he couldn't find anywhere else, and Soundwave needed—

Soundwave needed his helm examined, because he was obviously out of his mind if knowing that still wasn't enough to make him change it.

Well, nobody ever got out of a war with their sanity intact.

He bent down again, intending to grace whatever he could reach with a few final kisses before the time came to clean up and leave. Too personal, perhaps, but Prowl wasn't an idiot. In fact, Soundwave had 100 shanix that said Prowl figured it out shortly after he did. If he had to guess, he'd say it was the second time he'd made the offer. But, as the saying went, in for a ration, in for a cu—

Prowl's hood clicked apart and flew open, cracking Soundwave in the chest window.

Prowl froze, all traces of leftover recharge and post-overload bliss instantly abandoned for an unprotected display of blatant horror. Soundwave, too, had frozen, torn between three powerful emotions: panic about how to explain the new fracture when he returned, bewilderment over the fact that a little blue ball of light now rested where familiar black and white plates had been not a moment before, and a kind of miserable awe that he'd actually received an opportunity to see it without first having to send a laser bolt hurtling through it. Both of their ventilation systems stalled for the next several seconds, making the only sound in the room the faint crackling and humming of Prowl's spark as it sat there happily exposing itself to Soundwave.

"...Negative." Soundwave lifted both hands, his gaze locked so tightly to it a helihawk would be proud—the harmony of Eurythma was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, but _this_ was the most beautiful thing he had ever _seen_ —and reached for Prowl's chest.

 _"What are you—?!"_ Prowl croaked, scrambling to simultaneously shove himself into an upright seated position and shield his spark and failing at both, unable to see how to get his forearms into the limited and awkward space between them with his hood splayed open.

"Desist." Soundwave gently pushed the plates closed and aligned the edges, encouraging them to finish locking themselves. They clicked shut in an instant, settling flush against the rest of Prowl's chest.

He already missed the view.

Soundwave pulled his hands back to himself and moved to slide off the berth. He'd been pushing his luck when he tried to give Prowl more affection; now it was long, long past when he ought to have gone home again, and... and he doubted he'd ever get to come back. Prowl would never believe he hadn't somehow made that part of the latest hypnotic suggestion. Not in a million years.

He wondered how long it'd be before he sensed a laser sight trained on his back.

And which faction would be the one to put it there.

"Why didn't you—why did you close it?" Prowl asked. Soundwave noted that Prowl was trying, rather valiantly, to keep an even tone while doing so, but couldn't quite manage; a tremble clung to the very edges.

"Prowl informed before," he replied, more pained than Prowl had ever heard him. He trudged toward the door, closing both mask and modesty panel, and entered the code that would let him out without notifying security that someone was exiting Prowl's quarters. He gripped the frame just long enough to brace himself while he spoke. "Prowl cannot give what Soundwave wants."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking and reading. ❤︎


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